


Shell Game

by Daisiestdaisy (Doyle)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, post-episode: 4x14 Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy
Summary: Three hours ago he’d laughed in Oswald’s face and walked out of the intake room whistling, Oswald screaming impotently from behind the closing gate that they had had a deal. He wasn’t laughing now.





	Shell Game

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tumblr thread: https://apuzzleboxandpaperbirds.tumblr.com/post/171998502184/apuzzleboxandpaperbirds

The Riddler came slinking back into Arkham midway through the weekly art therapy session – later, when he’d been filled in on what had happened back at the Narrows, Oswald would have said _came back_ _with his tail between his legs_ , if it wasn’t for the fact that venomous snakes famously lacked those appendages.

Three hours ago he’d laughed in Oswald’s face and walked out of the intake room whistling, Oswald screaming impotently from behind the closing gate that they had had a deal. He wasn’t laughing now. He’d changed into an even greener suit and recouped his hat, or a twin, from God only knew where, but his face was a picture of cold efficiency as he strode into the rec room, gun at arm’s length in front of him and lockdown sirens starting to wail from the ceiling tannoys.

The paintbrush Oswald had been using to slash vivid greens and reds across the canvas snapped in half in his fist. He thought, _So betraying me and humiliating me,_ again _, wasn’t enough for him, he’s come back to kill me_ – and then, as the Riddler put a bullet through the brain of the bored on-duty orderly before the man could scramble to his feet, he didn’t know what to think.

Inmates were screaming, laughing, leaping onto chairs; Ed swatted away an attempted hug from one of them and advanced towards Oswald, whose broken brush might not have been much of a weapon but who made up his mind there and then that he wasn’t going down without shoving it into some part of Ed.

He hadn’t made his choice of target, though, before Ed urgently told him, “Oswald, I blocked the entrance to this wing but we only have three minutes until full lockdown. We need to get out of here.”

Oswald’s jaw dropped.

Across the room, Valeska wolf-whistled, two fingers shoved either side of that scarred mouth of his, an ugly, shrill sound: “Pengy,” he drawled, “is this why you turned me down? Should’ve just told me there was another man in your life.”

Ed glanced around at him, irritation and confusion coming over his face, and it was only a second’s lapse of concentration but it was enough for Oswald to knock aside his easel and rush forward to grab Ed’s wrist, twisting the gun up towards the ceiling. “I will _kill_ you,” Oswald snarled, “no second chances this time, _Ed_ , no freezing, no weakness, do you understand me?”

“Great plan.” Ed batted uselessly at him with his free hand. “Super. Tiny problem, you’ll still be in here and Sofia Falcone will still be out there.”

“Sofia Falcone,” Valeska said loudly – wonderful, he was in a helpful mood today – “she’s the one who has your boy, right?”

Ed had learned his lesson, and didn’t look away this time, but his scowl deepened. “Two and a half minutes,” he snapped. “Promise not to shoot me and I’ll even let you have the gun, but we need to go _now_.”

“Now,” one of Jerome’s lackeys echoed, and the rest of them took it up – “Now, now, now, now...”

For one instant Oswald was so furious that he almost refused out of sheer spite. Ed wanted him to escape, all of a sudden? Then he’d rather stay right here in Arkham until the day he died, just to keep Ed or _the Riddler_ or whoever the hell he thought he was at this moment from getting his own way.

“Oswald,” the Riddler said quietly, leaning close, and somehow it was crueller than anything else he’d done today because he looked and sounded so much like the real Ed: “I need you.”

Oswald was still holding tight to his wrist. They said you could tell a lie by the way the liar’s heart would race; then again, he’d heard polygraph tests were useless on sociopaths. Their hearts just didn’t work in such predictable ways, he supposed. And it didn’t matter if Ed was lying (probably, the steady pulse beneath his fingers aside), or scheming against him (almost certainly). Sofia had Martin, and news of a failed escape attempt might cause her to use him to keep Oswald in line.

“Give me the gun,” he said. The Riddler looked delighted at this change of heart, suddenly beaming down at him, one of his shell-game smiles that seemed totally sincere unless you were watching out for the con.

“Of course,” he said, handing it over like he was bestowing a great gift. “Shall we?”

Oswald shot four guards on their way out. He didn’t really have to, but he’d suffered very much this past while, and he thought he deserved to do something nice for himself.

**

“I don’t suppose you’d believe that this morning was just a hilarious practical joke.”

Oswald, slouching down in the passenger seat for fear of some busybody in another car noticing the striped uniform, refused to dignify that with a response.

“ _I_ thought it was funny, anyway. And it’s not as if it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to you.”

“Maybe you should have broken Valeska out instead of me. You two are practically soulmates.”

Ed frowned. At least it was an improvement over that smug smirk. “I didn’t like him,” he said. “Attention-seeker.”

That startled a bark of a laugh from Oswald. “So, you agree with me. Soulmates.”

“It always comes back to true love with you,” Ed said, slyly.

Once upon a time that would have been like a lance through his heart. Now, it was one of a thousand constant pinpricks, hardly perceptible. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Oswald told him. “And don’t even think about crossing me again.”

Ed lifted a hand from the wheel to press it to his heart, mock-wounded. “You said if I got Ed to come to Arkham you’d set me free. I did, he did, you did. Nobody said anything about breaking you out.”

Oswald started to protest, because that couldn’t be true, he wouldn’t have been so stupid – but he’d read and reread that riddle until he knew every letter by heart, and Ed was right. _This prison must be broken_. The Riddler’s own prison, and nothing else.

He should have seen it, but it was like weeks of Arkham had let a fog seep into his brain that was only starting to clear now, as the asylum dwindled away in the rear view mirror.

“But you came back anyway,” he said. “Meaning you need something.”

Ed shifted in his seat. “Things changed in the Narrows while I was here,” he admitted. “I may, possibly, need some information on Sofia Falcone.”

 _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_. Part of Oswald would have just loved to deny him, but he couldn’t miss a chance to move against Sofia, even if it meant letting this most recent indignity go. “Then let’s talk terms now,” he said. When they’d escaped from the Court, Ed had stuck to their agreement, six hours, down to the second. Whether that was some belief in honor among thieves or another one of his compulsions, Oswald didn’t know, but either way playing on it was his best chance of rescuing Martin. “Truce for... let’s say a week, unless we agree an extension before then.”

“If it takes the two of us a week to kill Sofia Falcone we don’t deserve this city,” Riddler said. Oswald just waited him out. “Okay. One week. During which time, we don’t try to kill each other.”

“Of course.”

 “This also includes freezing, torturing, or otherwise inflicting violence on me.”

“On either of us,” Oswald corrected him, on high alert for tricky loopholes.

“You’ll call me Riddler, not Ed or Edward, including to other people.”

Oswald sighed, deeply, and didn’t try to hide it, but said, “Fine.”

 _Ed_ , as he was going to make a special point of thinking of him as from now on, looked pleased. “You don’t kill or threaten Lee Thompkins,” he said, and before Oswald could ask, waved it off with, “long story. Something I need to take care of myself.”

Oswald filled in the rest of the story himself. Whatever name he chose to answer to, Ed Nygma was sadly predictable where beautiful women were concerned. One more jab of a pin in his heart, hardly anything at all. It didn’t matter. He’d give a toast at their wedding if it kept Ed working with him long enough to take Sofia down.

“Sofia has a hostage,” he said. “We find him first. His safety is of supreme importance.”

Ed gave him a strange, sidelong look. “Jerome Valeska didn’t make that up? She does have your...” He seemed to be struggling for the word, despite the eidetic memory he was so proud of. “Your _boy_.”

“Martin,” Oswald said. “Yes. Either she has him, and I have to save him. Or he’s dead, and I have to know.” And then he worked out the reason for that distaste in Ed’s voice, and added sharply, “He’s a child, Ed. Nine or ten years old. Not my, my lover. So you don’t have to be disgusted.”

“I wasn’t...” He blinked, and his expression settled back into that slightly cruel sneer. Probably it had only been wishful thinking that for a moment he’d looked confused and apologetic, as if the man Oswald had used to know had shone through a crack in this facade that looked and spoke like him. “What did we _just_ agree about not calling me ‘Ed’?”

Oswald thought of Martin, his earnest, frightened little face, and swallowed down all of the caustic things he was thinking. “I just forgot, Riddler,” he said, as placating as he’d ever been when Fish or Maroni was in a temper. “Forgive me. I’ve been so worried about Martin, and I had no idea how I was going to find him alone – no doubt Sofia’s hidden him away somewhere very clever, but I’m sure if I had you helping me...”

It was shamefully easy to push his buttons. One sop to his ego and he was all contented satisfaction. “I’ll find the child for you. In the spirit of cooperation. I’ll have him back by nightfall, if he’s still alive.”

“And he stays safe,” Oswald added hurriedly. “You don’t hurt him. I’m sure Dr. Thompkins would want that too.”

“Well, I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Ed said. “But, sure. The kid stays safe.”

He was going to save Martin. Hope, real hope after so long, felt dizzying. “Then I agree to your terms,” he said, throwing in another, “Riddler.”

“I agree to yours, Oswald,” Ed said. “Oh, one last thing: if the idiot version of me gets out again, switch me back fast.”

Some day he was going to have to sit down and think through why Ed believed that whatever Oswald called him worked like a magic spell, but for the moment he simply said, “Agreed.”

“And if you can’t, at least take my gun away from him.”

Oswald scoffed. “Better Eds than him have tried to kill me. I think I’ll be fine.”

Ed tapped his fingers on the edge of the wheel. “Brothers and sisters, I have none, but the man I mean is my father’s son.”

“Yourself,” Oswald said, by reflex, then worked out the riddle behind the riddle: “You think he’s going to kill... you? Himself? Why?”

“Let’s just say it’s come up.” One-handed, he pantomimed wrapping something around his own neck, pulling it taut until he pretended to choke, tongue poking out of his mouth. Oswald had to look away.

“What did you do?” he said quietly.

“Hey,” Ed snapped, suddenly on the defensive for no reason he could see, “you just said bring him to Arkham. If you had specific instructions on how you wanted me to get him to an insane asylum _without_ driving him insane, maybe you should have been clearer.”

He’d meant ‘What did you do when you realized he wanted to kill himself’, not ‘What did you do to make this happen.’

“Of course, that would have made for a really long message.” A cruel smile touched the corners of Ed’s mouth. “A nice, long letter full of apologies and promises of friendship for poor, dumb little Ed.”

He could have written it, if he’d thought to. In his head, he’d written hundreds, and none of them had said enough.

“He tore it up, by the way.”

That was what Oswald had expected. He’d been terrified he wouldn’t even read it.

“And then,” the Riddler said, “he took it out of the trash and taped it back together again. It took him a while to work out how to fit the pieces since, y’know, moron, but he got there in the end.”

Oswald stared down at the grime and paint and blood on his filthy uniform and pushed the sick feeling deep down inside of himself. What was done was done, and he would do it a thousand times over if he had to, and he wasn’t going to think about that other Ed, with the shaking hands and wet, desperate eyes.

“Make a stop by the manor before we go into the city,” he said, and noted for future consideration how Ed moved to obey him before he’d even finished speaking. “I need to change.”


End file.
